Just a Piece of Metal
by finalproblem
Summary: Holmes is seriously injured while he and Watson are hunting down a criminal, and although Watson is a doctor, he is afraid that his nerves will make him unable to properly give Holmes the operation he so desperately needs. -NOT SLASH-
1. One

**_One_**

We ran.

My feet pounded against the polished cobblestone pavement with such force that I felt as though they might break at any moment. My lungs heaved as we tore through the dark city streets of London, the icy cold rush of bitter wind streaking across my pale face.

Holmes, a few meters ahead of me, had managed to keep track of the criminal we were hunting down, and though I could not, the detective could see the man we were pursuing at such great speeds, and I merely followed him, revolver in hand, should the criminal try to turn on us.

The man in question, Mr. Thomas Hart, had been no match for Holmes' clever wits. He was an amateur jewelry thief, nothing more, but his intricate break-in and ominous ransom notes sent to the victim of the theft, Mrs. Judith Dale, had rather amused my friend, and he had taken interest in the case.

Not more than a week ago Mrs. Dale had stepped into our apartment at 221B Baker Street and explained her situation to Holmes. Some searching, snooping, and several smokes later had finally taken us to this final point in the case; the climax, if you will.

And, of course, every good story has a confrontation of the main conflict – in this case, Mr. Hart.

As my partner and I rounded a corner, Holmes suddenly skidded to a halt, stopping to face the criminal, who was backed into an alleyway about fifty meters away.

I followed suit, stopping behind my friend, breathing heavily from the exhausting run. I kept a firm grip on my revolver as Holmes began to speak.

"Give up, Mr. Hart. There's no-where for you to scamper off to now. Ah, don't bother taking out your revolver – my friend here will have you down before you've even gotten a chance to take aim. Now, the Yard will be here at any moment, so don't try to do anything rash."

Mr. Hart gave my friend an ugly grin, his yellow teeth glinting sickly in the pale moonlight.

"It seems you've gotten me right and good, Misser 'Olmes. Nicely done, there. But even with your great and genius mind, why don't you tell me somethin'?"

Holmes kept his eyes locked on Hart as he asked, "And what's that?"

"Where're the jewels kept, then? Bet you 'aven't got the faintest clue where I've stashed 'em, eh?"

He gave Holmes a challenging chuckle, a glint of defiance in his eye. But I glanced at my friend's face and saw the small smile that was creeping up upon his features.

"Well, Mr. Hart, if I am not mistaken, I believe that Mrs. Dale's prized ruby necklace in is the uppermost pocket of your inner jacket, upon the left side."

Hart had quite obviously underestimated my friend's abilities a great deal, and the smile was gone from his face in an instant, shock and slight horror beginning to set in.

In the distance, the rumble of horse's hooves was not far away, and we all knew that Hart would soon be in the hands of the Yard.

Relaxing his stance just a little, Holmes gave Hart a disapproving look. "Really, now. Let's not make this too difficult. Give me the necklace."

The shock still plain on Hart's face was beginning to become rather amusing, but his reaction to Holmes' statement was not at all what we were expecting, and not in the least bit humorous.

I saw him glance at either side of him, but it never occurred to me what he would do next. Holmes, however, saw his plan just before it was executed, and he gave an annoyed cry just as Hart took off running, dashing towards us out of the alleyway and then away behind some buildings, out of sight.

I heard Holmes curse as we charged after him again, the look on his face rather agitated. "Damn it all, Watson," said he as we trotted through the alleys, searching for Hart. "The Inspector is going to arrive upon the scene and find no-one there. I'm afraid he isn't bright enough to think to come looking for us. He'll most likely stand about and confuse his slow brain as to where we've run off too."

I chuckled. "Well, I guess it's up to us to find him, then."

Holmes came to a stop and motioned to the revolver still clutched in my frozen fingers. "If you see him, Watson, don't hesitate to shoot. I've got his story pretty set, and I don't believe there are any loose ends or extra facts Mr. Hart would be able to bring to light, so if you did shoot and kill him I don't think it would be much of a loss. Let us split up and go looking for the man. He can't be far."

With that, Holmes gave me a quick pat on the arm and disappeared into the shadows.

I cleared my throat as I pulled my jacket closer to me. My breath materialized and was now visible as a thin mist in the frosty night air. It was indeed very cold so late at night.

Looking around, I thought about going back to the inspectors of the Yard, who were most likely standing about getting cold, as Holmes had suggested. After a bit of thought, I decided against it. I would be fine on my own.

I began to walk in the general direction that Holmes had taken, trying to keep my steps very quiet so that I would be able to hear any sounds in the darkness. The moonlight provided just enough illumination to see, though it was still difficult to make things out. Large shapes looming in the darkness could have been anything, from a jumble of crates to a human form, and I wasn't sure how Holmes or I were going to find Hart at this time of day.

My friend was very determined, but I knew that he was without a revolver, unlike myself, so perhaps I had a better chance at subduing the escapee Thomas Hart.

I knelt behind a crate and sat very still, the faint sound of my breathing and the whistling of the wind the only two things I could hear.

Presently, I heard a crash of what sounded like a combination of wood and metal, followed by some cursing which I immediately knew to be Hart. I stood and kept my back against the wall, listening closely.

I heard a few more crashing noises, though they were quieter than the first. A few seconds passed, then the sound of running feet upon the pavement. As I listened, it seemed as though the feet were getting closer as they clapped noisily against the ground.

Yes. I could heard it clearly now. I raised my revolver as the steps seemed to be just a few meters away…

Hart blew past my hiding spot and veered sharply to the left, just about twenty meters in front of me, and I didn't hesitate to raise my arm and pull the trigger of my revolver.

By some unimaginable luck, Hart's sharp turn caused him to slip on the pavement just as I fired, and he hit the ground, managing to dodge the bullet altogether.

I stood there for a few seconds, stupidly unable to fully grasp the strange and seemingly impossible events that had just taken place.

By now, of course, Hart had leaped to his feet and was off again. Now, it was my turn to curse. How the _hell_ had I just missed such an easy shot?

Still, why had Hart been running in the first place?

My question was soon answered when Holmes came rushing around the corner as well. He quickly spotted me and came to my side, his cheeks flushed from his sprint.

He gave a hearty laugh and placed his hand on my shoulder. "Now, this is getting rather fun, isn't it, Watson?" said he. "Here we are, looking like fools as we chase a fat jewel thief through London at some ridiculous hour of night, and he's managed to escape not once, but twice. Indeed, what fools we are."

But his smile faded and my friend glanced in the direction Hart had run. "However, I'm sure being overweight does not help one keep up running for long. He's likely hiding, Watson, rather than continuing to flee. I'll flush him out, and you shoot him."

I nodded to show I understood, and we crept along the rough building wall, the scratchy bricks pulling at my jacket as we slid along the side.

Holmes then hurried in front of me, still staying very quiet, and held his hand out, signaling me to wait. I froze and held my gun ready.

Holmes disappeared into the darkness, and I stayed perfectly still so not to rouse anyone's suspicions that I might be hiding there.

I waited in the frosty air, not daring to move to pull my jacket tighter. My collar had come undone in the excitement, and the wind was snaking sharp wisps of icy air right down to my bare skin. I shivered.

It was taking Holmes longer than I had expected to drive Hart from his hiding place, but I also knew that when Holmes did flush him out, he would do it right the first time. Sherlock Holmes was not one for mistakes.

But I didn't have to wait much longer. It was clear Holmes had done his job when I heard a shout and then the sound of running steps once again. However, Hart didn't arrive immediately, as I had thought he would. The steps began to die – there were faint noises for another second or two – then, nothing.

Still, I kept my finger, poised and ready, on the trigger of my revolver, waiting for any sign of movement.

This thrill, this waiting, the catching of the criminal – this is what I loved about Holmes' cases. They were never boring.

A few more seconds, then…

A loud crashing of crates, and then I saw a shape streak through the darkness in front of me, not far away, and my reaction could not have been quicker. I shoot and he goes down. An excellent shot – I haven't quite killed him, just injured him. He's still moving on the ground. From what I can see, it appears I've just missed his heart.

I call out into the darkness, "I got him, Holmes!" so that my companion would know we had succeeded.

I begin to walk to the man, and I hear a gasp of pain escape his throat as he clutches his wound. "We've gotten you, Hart," I say with a smirk as I stop a few feet from the body. "The Yard will be here in a min-"

But as I look at the man on the ground, blood pouring from his gunshot wound, my heart seems to stop and a chill colder than any wind courses through my body.

It's not Hart I've shot.

It's Holmes.


	2. Two

_**Two**_

The realization of what has just occurred does not come quickly. It is gradual and slow – and I struggle to grasp what has just passed.

My head whirls as the shot I've just taken rings in my head. I feel dizzy. _What… have I done?_

I stand there, stupidly clutching my warm revolver, and it takes another gasp of pain from my terribly wounded companion to finally bring me back to the horror at hand.

I cry his name and run to Holmes' side, dropping to my knees and clutching his arms in my trembling hands.

Fear overcomes my brain as I see the gravity of the wound I've given my poor friend; his jacket, hands, and the ground are dyed a sickening crimson.

I choke on my words for a moment as I try to stay calm. I shake off my outer jacket and press it to Holmes' wound in an effort to control the bleeding, but I don't have enough material.

I need help. Now.

I raise my head and cry out, as loudly as I can, pleading for anyone, anything that can aid me.

I do this a few times, praying the Yard has heard me. The man at my side struggles for air, and I turn my attention back to him, my hands shaking.

_What have I done?_

He seems so unnaturally fragile, so broken, so weak – and to think that not even a minute earlier, he was as healthy as he had ever been. But now…

Never before had I seen the great Sherlock Holmes reduced to such a pitiful state, and my heart ached to think that it was I that did this to my poor friend.

I held my jacket against his wound with one hand, quickly realizing that I needed to keep Holmes awake and alert as possible – he cannot give up, not now. I snap my fingers a few times in an effort to keep his eyes on me.

I keep doing this, hoping someone arrives, which I continue to pray will happen. Please, someone, anyone.

I grasp my friend's jaw and tilt his head, trying to keep my hand steady.

"Listen to me. Stay with me – no, look at me – I want you to keep your eyes on me. Don't look away. Stay awake."

I look into Holmes' gray eyes, usually so bright and alive – and a sickening wave of terror washes over me.

There is so much fear in those eyes.

My companion has never been one for fright, and it is not very often that he is even greatly alarmed. It is not easy to take a man such as Sherlock Holmes by surprise.

But now, I stare into my friend's eyes and see my own emotions of fear reflected back – and in those eyes, beyond the fear and the pain, there is nothing – and that is what scares me the most. He's fighting, fighting to stay awake, fighting to hang on. But he's fading.

Holmes blinks at me, slowly, and opens his mouth as if to speak, but I hear nothing.

_Please. Say anything. Anything. Tell me you are fighting this. God, I'm… I'm so, so sorry…_

The mask of calm I had been attempting to keep steady was beginning to crack. I felt sick, guilt plaguing me to the point of nausea, and I slump over my friend. Tears sting my eyes.

I need time. More time than I have. He's fading too fast.

I raise my head and cry out one last time, my voice desperate and ragged now, but I do not care. All I want is for this to end. To wake from this horrible nightmare. But I know that won't happen.

I could never dream the immense horror that courses through my body at this very moment.

Holmes' eyes begin to close, and my brain screams.

_No, please. Please don't do this. I'm so sorry._

Suddenly, in the distance, I hear them.

Footsteps.

But the panic in my brain is too much, and I begin to feel faint as the steps come closer. I hear people speaking, shouting – but the guilt-ridden voice in my brain screams even louder.

_What have I done?_

* * *

"Doctor? Doctor, can you hear me?"

I begin to open my eyes, slowly, as if I am afraid they will be pierced by a strong light, but where I lay now is a bit dim and uninviting.

I open my eyes fully and give them a moment to adjust – an older woman, a nurse, I assume, by the way she is dressed – is standing next to my bed, continuing to speak my name, though I ignore her.

Why am I in bed?

I try to understand what is happening, and I survey the room.

I quickly realize that my surroundings are all too familiar, and I begin to wonder why I am at my own place of business. I don't remember going to work to-day. But why am I on one of my own medical beds? What –

I remember, and it all comes back far too fast, and I sit up and scream Holmes' name, my eyes wide and frantic, my forehead suddenly moist with cold sweat.

The elderly nurse leaps forward and pushes me back against my pillow, calling my name, trying to calm me, but I push her away with relative ease and escape the bed.

But within moments, I collapse upon the floor, my head horribly dizzy, and my temples pulsing with dull pain.

I groan, and the nurse is there again, helping me to my feet.

"Doctor," she cries, out of breath, "You need to rest – get back into bed. Sit for just a moment; I'll bring some water."

She ushers me back in the bed, and I obey, sitting up next to my pillow. I feel rather groggy as she returns with water, which I am very grateful for.

I take small sips as I try to clear my mind, my hands still shaking.

Eventually I am able to compose myself steadily enough to ask the nurse a few questions. She does her best to fill me in, though it's obvious she doesn't know much about what happened.

"Well, from what I heard, you were found very late last night, after you went off hunting down a criminal… Though I'm not the one to ask, Doctor, you'd best be asking Mr. Lestrade these questions. He's the one that found you and Mr. Holmes –"

I choke on my water.

"Where is he? Is he all right? What happened? I tried to… I mean, I didn't –"

I set my water down and ran my hands over my weary face as the kindly nurse placed a comforting hand on my shoulder. "He's alive, Doctor," she says uneasily. "But only just."

I need to see him. My hands still shake upon remembering the events that occurred only just last night. Was it really _only_ last night? I feel as though it occurred decades ago. It all seems… so far away.

_I'm so sorry._

I clear my throat. "Please, can I see him?"

The nurse nods quickly. "Yes, of course, they've been expecting you. However, I was only to let you go visit if you were feeling well."

I stand from the bed and give my mind a moment to settle. "I'm fine, fine. Where is he?"

She leads me away, down a hallway just to my left, and stops at the door to one of the rooms. "Here," she says quietly, "He's in here. I'm very sorry, Doctor… he'll be all right, I'm sure."

_He'll be all right._

I take the door-handle and turn it, not knowing what horrors I would face on the other side.


	3. Three

**_Three_**

Sherlock Holmes wasn't sure which woke him first – the cool cloth that had been placed gently on his feverish forehead, or the quiet – yet somewhat frantic – calling of John Watson.

"Holmes? Holmes, can you hear me?"

The wounded man began to raise his arm in a feeble effort to wipe the sweat from his face, but white-hot pain tore through his chest, and he made a little cry of distress and gritted his teeth. Even such miniscule movements as those were painful.

Dazed, Holmes was finding it difficult to concentrate. His mind was blurry. He couldn't recall what had happened in the last hours.

He closed his eyes. More rest. Perhaps this was all only a strangely realistic dream. But he wasn't sure. The pain in his chest was bordering on unbearable.

"Holmes!"

He felt a hand on his face.

"_Listen to me. Stay with me – no, look at me – I want you to keep your eyes on me. Don't look away. Stay awake."_

Why did he remember that voice? Who was it that had uttered those words? And when?

"For God's sakes, Holmes, speak to me!"

The detective turned his head, slowly, and saw the agonized face of his companion standing over him.

"Watson, old boy."

Though his voice was faint and rough – as his throat was horribly parched – Holmes saw a small glint of relief in Watson's eye. However, relief quickly faded to guilt and anguish.

The doctor's face was grief-stricken as he murmured, "Holmes, I'm…" He rubbed his weary face. "How are you? I mean, I know that I must seem an idiot to be asking, but…"

Watson turned to the nurse who had been quietly standing in the corner. "Could I have some water, please?"

She nodded and swiftly exited the room, leaving the poor doctor and his friend.

Watson turned back to his pained companion. "I'm so sorry, Holmes. I should have known that it was not Hart who was in front of me. I'm an idiot, Holmes. I'm so sorr-"

Holmes cut him off. "Hart."

Watson gave him a bewildered look. "What?"

"Hart," Holmes said again, with some difficulty. "Where is he?"

"We caught him Holmes, don't worry… but how could you think of Hart now? You're so… terribly hurt."

Watson looked away, his cheeks burning.

Holmes saw his friend's face, awash in shame, and he closed his eyes.

"Watson, dear fellow, please don't look like that." He paused for a moment.

The doctor turned to his companion, his eyes wide. "My dear Holmes! You must be mad with fever! How could I not look this way, I've injured you so! It is my entire fault!"

Holmes shook his head. "No, Watson. I do not blame you. All that I wish is for my chest to be rid of this bullet as soon as possible, for it is indeed quite painful."

Watson rose and took the cloth from his friend's forehead, refreshing it with cool water and placing it back.

"I will do everything in my power to help you, Holmes."

Holmes glanced at him, a faint glint in his eye. "Halloa," he wheezed quietly, "May I have the water now?"

Watson looked around him. "What do you mean? The nurse has not yet retur-"

"Your water, sirs," said the nurse as she stepped through the door with a small tray of ice and water. Watson stared at her for a moment before taking the tray with a quiet thank-you.

He turned to Holmes, whose eyes were closed, a small smile on the detective's lips.

"You never cease to amaze me, my dear Holmes," said Watson, with a shake of his head.

* * *

"I'm sure you know the gravity of the wound," said the young surgeon, his face grim.

"Yes."

"And that the bullet is in a tricky place – it will be difficult to remove."

"Yes."

"He may not survive surgery."

_Stop. Stop telling me._

I gave him an annoyed sigh. I was angry at the surgeon for treating me like such a child – of course I knew all of these things! I was a doctor, like he! I knew them, but hearing them out loud… Every fact pierced me like the bullet that had pierced my friend.

The surgeon had told me, simply, that he felt it best if I preformed the surgery on my friend, and at first, I was eager – the bullet needed to be removed as soon as possible, and I had told Holmes I would do anything to help him – but now, my hands shook with nervousness.

How was I to perform this on my own friend? If I made a mistake and was the cause of his death, I could never continuing living with the guilt. I would never be the same.

_I can't do this._

I paused, choosing my words carefully. "What if you were to do the surgery? Why do you wish me to do it?"

The surgeon gave me a strange look. "You seemed eager before, Doctor. Is something the matter?"

"No," I said quickly, "I am just inquiring."

He adjusted his chair slightly, his face a bit sheepish. "Well, I don't believe that I could, um… I don't think my hands are steady enough."

I gave him a look. "You're afraid you're not skilled enough for such a tricky operation."

The surgeon looked down, his face red. "I'm sorry. I've only been in this practice for a few years." He then tried to redeem himself with flattery, much to my irritation. "You're very skilled, Doctor Watson – I am sure you'll do a fine job."

I sighed and clasped my shaking hands together. "No, it is all right. I will do the surgery."

The surgeon gave me a bright look. "Good. Great. When would you like to start? He's going to need the surgery as soon as poss-"

"I know that," I said slowly, my voice tinged with anger. "I know."

The surgeon fell quiet, his face pale.

"I want just a few more minutes with him," I said, standing, "Then I'll begin to prepare. Be ready in an hour."

"An hour," he repeated. "Of course."

With that, he rose and departed the office – and I was close on his heels, heading to my poor friend to see him once more before the surgery.

I arrived at Holmes' room, stopping short at the door. Why did I want to see him? I wasn't sure. Did I believe he would somehow calm my nerves? No, of course not. He would only increase the severity of my anxiety.

I knew this, yet I still wanted to see my poor friend.

I stepped into the room and closed the door behind me.

"Holmes?" I said quietly.

I stepped nearer to the bed and I couldn't help the small smile that crept up upon on my face when I noticed that Holmes was sound asleep, his heavily bandaged chest rising and falling ever so slightly.

I took a moment to exhale and look over the face of my friend, which was so calm and quiet – almost as if he was perfectly all right, sleeping soundly in his old arm-chair back at Baker Street.

But these were only wishes, and I swept them away and gently shook my friend awake.

"Holmes?"

His eyes blinked open and rested on me.

"Ah, Watson," said he, attempting to sound energetic, but I could tell from his voice that he was greatly fatigued… and in terrible pain.

"I haven't got a lot of time, old boy," I said, kneeling down to see Holmes face-to-face, "But I need to tell you what's going to happen."

He watched my features, eyeing me expectantly.

"I'll be doing the surgery," I explained, "And it's going to begin very soon. I'll be giving you the best care that I have. When you wake next, this nightmare will be nearly over."

He smiled. "You're nervous."

Damn. I had tried to appear calm.

"Yes," I said, "But that was to be expected. You'll be all right, Holmes."

His smile faded. "I know, dear Watson, I know. With your level of skill, I believe removing the bullet shouldn't be too difficult. After all…" He paused, his voice trailing.

"Yes?" I asked quietly.

"It's just a piece of metal, dear Watson."


	4. Four

**_Four_**

It's just a piece of metal. That's all.

I tried to tell myself this, but trying to apply such a phrase literally was difficult. It wore such a thin coat of logic that I couldn't possibly hope for it to be true.

Indeed, the bullet _was_ just a piece of metal, but it was a dangerous and greatly life-threatening one at that. It would be difficult to remove, and deadly if it remained in Holmes' body.

I stood, alone, washing my hands in the warm water, garbed in a long white gown.

_Greatly life-threatening._

I shut off the water and held my head over the sink, my brain pounding in my skull.

_You did this to him! It was you!_

He needed surgery. He could die.

_Difficult to remove! Life-threatening! It's your entire fault!_

The guilt poured from my mouth, just whispers.

_If he dies, it will be your fault. Your greatest friend. You shot him. _You_ shot him. It was-_

"Me!" I cried, slamming my fist down on the counter in self-hatred, my brain on fire. "It was me!"

I turned and slid to the floor, my face in my hands.

_It's just a piece of metal._

I raised my eyes and stared at the door across from me. I didn't want to go through, but I had to. I had to go through. He needed my help.

I couldn't break down like this. Not now, when Holmes needed me the most.

"_No, Watson. I do not blame you."_

Holmes' words rang in my head. I tried to tell myself that he spoke the truth, and a part of me hoped that he really meant what he had said.

I stood and brushed the dirt from my knees, washed my hands again, and took a deep breath.

It was time.

* * *

"He's out, Doctor Watson."

"Completely?"

"Yes."

"Check his pulse."

"Pulse is good."

"Good. We have all necessary supplies?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now, no one is allowed in until we're finished. Do exactly as I say."

"Of course, sir."

"Are you ready?"

"Yes. We can begin."

* * *

"Do you think he'll be all right?" asked the young nurse, checking the time on the wall. "He's been in there for about an hour, I'd say."

"Yes, I think so," replied the other nurse. "Doctor Watson is very experienced. He's sure to do a good job."

"Well, I do hope everything goes well. After all-"

A loud tapping came from the main door.

"Another patient?" asked the younger nurse, standing and hurrying to open it.

She had barely turned the knob when a plump, white-whiskered man came rushing through the door, out of breath.

The nurse, a bit taken aback, stared at him for a moment before asking, "Can I help you, sir?"

The man, breathing hard, gave the nurse a frightened look. "I came as soon as I heard."

"Heard what?" asked the young woman. "From whom?"

"Scotland Yard. They told me he'd been shot."

The nurse stared at him.

"Sherlock Holmes!" he cried, distressed. "Where is he?"

"In surgery, sir," the lady said. "I'm not sure when the doctors will be done with him. But please, sir, tell me your name."

The man stood there for a moment, then spoke very quietly.

"Mycroft. Mycroft Holmes. I'm Sherlock Holmes' brother."

* * *

"How close are we?"

"Close. We need to be very careful. Error here would be fatal."

"I have everything ready."

"All right."

…

"Doctor Watson, are you all right? Is there something the matter?"

…

"No. I'm fine. Fine. I'm… going in now."

"Be careful, Doctor."

* * *

Silence.

The room was still. Mycroft sat wearily in one corner, unmoving. The nurses had long departed, off to help other patients.

Two hours, this damned surgery had been going on. Two whole hours. How long would it be?

Mycroft stared at the clock. He hadn't been told who had shot his brother, when, or how.

"Damn Yard," he said, wiping his brow. "Useless as ever."

His words resounded over the room, and then silence fell over the white-washed walls once more.

* * *

"Do you have it? Doctor Watson? Do you-"

"Quiet!"

…

"Doctor, he's fading. Get it out, now."

"I told you, quiet!"

"Doctor! Do you have it? Oh, my God. He's-"

* * *

Three hours. Surely, they were nearly done.

Mycroft, still alone, still silent, had nothing to do but wait.

* * *

"-going to be all right," breathed the young surgeon. "You've done it, Doctor Watson, you've done it! Here, put the bullet here… good. Great! You did it! He's going to be all right! He's… Doctor Watson?"

I stared at my friend, alive, free of the bullet, soon to be well, and the metal tongs fell from my grasp and clattered to the floor as I staggered backwards and into a chair, my mind overwhelmed with relief.

_You did it._

* * *

"Please, tell me he will be all right," cried Mycroft as the young surgeon appeared at the threshold of the waiting-room door.

The surgeon smiled. "He's going to be just fine, sir! And who do I have the pleasure of telling such good news?"

"I am his brother, Mycroft Holmes," breathed the man. "And I give you eternal thanks," said he, vigorously shaking the surgeon's hand, "For saving my brother's life."

"Ah," said the surgeon, "But it was not I who did this dangerous and tricky surgery. It is not I you should be thanking."

"Pray tell me – who then?"

"Why, it was none other than Mr. Sherlock Holmes' friend and close companion, Doctor John Watson!"

* * *

I awoke, dazed.

The nurse standing over me gave a little laugh. "Ah, Doctor Watson! You're awake! It seems you were so relieved by the success of Mr. Holmes' surgery that you passed out for a few moments afterward."

I glanced at the room around me.

"It's done," I whispered, my voice scratchy. "He'll be okay."

"Yes!" said the nurse, clasping her happy hands together. "Here, have some water, Doctor. You sound parched."

I took the glass and quenched my dry throat, setting the glass down and slowly rising from the bed.

"Oh, by the way," said the nurse, "His brother Mycroft is here as well. I'm sure he would like to thank you. You should go see him."

With a smile, she left me to my own thoughts for a moment as I stretched my arms, my heart still pounding with joy and relief.

_He's alive._

_You did it._


	5. Five

**_Five_**

"This hospital tea is dreadful!"

"Well, that was to be expected."

John Watson and Mycroft Holmes sat on opposite sides of the hospital bed, and their manners and moods were very much reflected in their opposite positions.

John Watson was quiet, a little pale, and his hands shook with a slight, barely-noticeable tremor.

Mycroft Holmes was jolly, or as jolly as a man such as himself could be, and he drank his tea with hearty sips, despite his previous comment about its questionable taste.

But these two men were not alone, no – between them lay Sherlock Holmes, heavily bandaged, but well on his way to good health. He would recover in due time, but for now, he resided in his hospital bed.

But even in his weakened state, Holmes still saw – for he saw everything – and he noticed the shake of Watson's hands, the nervousness in his glances at Mycroft, and Mycroft's oblivious nature to the man seated across from him.

"I am glad you're going to be right and well again, Sherlock," commented Mycroft, "To who else would I send the strange cases that come my way?" He gave a little chuckle.

John Watson said nothing – and his silence brought upon the very thing he dreaded the most at this present moment, and his face turned a shade whiter as Mycroft spoke.

"But, Sherlock, you know that damn Yard – and they told me nothing of what had happened on the night of your misfortune. Though I am lazy, Sherlock, as you know – I promise I will find this person who did this to you, the bastard!"

Watson set his tea down and gave Holmes an anxious look.

"Whoever was it, Sherlock?" Mycroft continued. "Of all people, surely you know the identity of the rat who shot you."

Holmes, ignoring Watson's panicked glance, did not waste any time answering his brother's inquiry. "Ah, brother Mycroft, don't bother – it does not really matter now, for I shall be all right in the end, but alas, there is nothing for you to do. The man who brought such a terrible wound upon me was –"

Watson caught his breath.

" –Thomas Hart, none other than the criminal we were hunting down that night."

Watson exhaled and carefully watched Mycroft's face as Holmes continued.

"We had him cornered, and he got jumpy and pulled his revolver before I had even the time to leap from harm's way. But, as I said, it is no matter now, for Hart is in jail, and I doubt that he will ever be leaving. I do thank you for your concern, however."

With that, Sherlock Holmes closed his eyes and remained expressionless.

"Well, what a shame," said Mycroft with a furrowed brow as he sipped his tea, too busy with his own thoughts to notice the wary Watson across from him.

"But now," said Holmes blandly, "I must ask the two of you to depart, for I am very tired and I have got a lot of healing to do. Your visits were most enjoyable, and I am sure I shall see you again soon in the future."

Mycroft nodded approvingly and stood, taking his hat and jacket, and Watson did the same, nodding a little good-bye to his friend before following Mycroft's footsteps out of the door.

And the two men left, one walking with his same jolly footsteps, and the other's steps very much lifted with relief and liberation.

* * *

_Four months later._

"Look, Watson!"

It was a beautiful day, the air crisp and chilled, and the faint scent of baking bread was drifting over the wind. The air was just beginning to ring with birdsong, and only small patches of snow were left to slowly expire upon the ground.

At present, Holmes and I were out on a little walk through a more rural part of London – a park, just coming back to life from its yearly demise of cold and snow.

Four months had passed since his surgery, and the sharp, inquisitive glint was back in Holmes' gray eyes. It always made me happy when I saw it, especially now, considering what we had been through.

"Here, over here!"

"What is it, Holmes?" I asked with a little smile as I watched Holmes peering at the ground, crouched like some strange animal.

"It is a _Thymelicus lineola_," said he, "Or, as it is more commonly known – an Essex Skipper!"

He smiled down at the little butterfly.

I gave him a strange look. "Butterflies, old boy? I didn't know you were so knowledgeable on the subject."

"Quite the contrary," Holmes replied, "In fact, this is the only species I know the scientific name of. I happened across it in a book I was inclined to read."

I gave a cheerful laugh. "Oh, Holmes, you never cease to surprise me."

"The same to you, dear friend."

I stopped and stood, watching the little butterfly flick its delicate wings.

"You know, Holmes, I'm not sure what I would have done if you had not made it out alive from that dreaded surgery."

He stood and gave me a tired look.

"Please, old boy, don't beat yourself up over that – it is in the past, four months and counting. It is all over now, and I am alive and well. And pray keep in mind that it was _you_ who saved my life, to which I am forever grateful."

I smiled. "I am very glad you're alive, Holmes. You've no idea how frightened I was for you that night. I wasn't sure if… you were going to make it."

Holmes came over to me and placed a hand on my shoulder. "Dearest Watson," said he, "I am sure you have seen many deaths in your time, my friend, and so I ask you: why, then, do you fret so often over the one that you have most successfully saved?"

I glanced at the ground. "I'm not sure," I said. "I guess that I have yet to completely wash the guilt from my conscience. After all, it was I that gave you that terrible wound."

Holmes removed his hand from my shoulder and began to walk. "Come with me, Watson," said he, "For I have something to show you back at Baker Street."

* * *

"Tea, Mrs. Hudson," called my friend as we arrived back at our living quarters. "And some toast for Watson, if you will."

He headed up the stairs to the sitting-room, I close on his heels, and we stepped into the comfy room as Holmes removed his jacket.

"Holmes," said I, my tone flat and annoyed, yet still a little playful. "Is that _my_ green waistcoat you're wearing?"

"Barter system, dear friend. Now, let us clear this table… ah, there we are. And, just in time, the tea and toast."

He motioned for me to take a seat in my old arm-chair and poured me a cup of tea.

"Cigarette?"

"Yes, please."

We sat in silence for some moments.

Eventually, Holmes and I had both finished our tea and my cigarette had been long snuffed, so Holmes rose and told me to wait for a minute.

"I shall be back momentarily," he said, "And I think you'll be interested to see what it is I have to show you."

He disappeared into the bedroom and returned with what appeared to be nothing, his arms behind his back.

"Holmes," I asked, furrowing my brow. "What-"

"Hush, Watson," said he. "Close your eyes and open your palm."

I gave him a strange look, but he insisted, so I did as I was told.

I felt him take my hand and drop something small and cold into it.

"Look, Watson."

I opened my eyes and gave a little gasp as I gazed down at the object resting in my palm.

"Why," I cried, "Is this…?"

"Yes," said my friend, "It is the very bullet you pulled from my chest – the very bullet which endangered my life, and the very bullet which you retrieved that set me back on track. This is why I nearly died, and why I live, dear boy. Without you, I would not be standing here to-day. This is what I want you to remember."

He sat across from me.

"Do not remember the terror or fear or whatever else you have been complaining about; only remember that it was you who banished these thoughts and revived my body with the removal of this tiny, dangerous object."

I stared at my friend.

"I though that they had thrown it away," I said. "I wasn't aware they had given it to you."

"Yes, I had specifically told them not to inform you of the matter, in case something like this arose. As it turns out, I was entirely correct in thinking you would still fret over this matter, even months later. So, I give this to you, dear Watson, in the hopes that it tells you not to worry – I am all right, old boy."

He gave me strange smile.

"But, Holmes, you cannot expect me to keep this, it is yours!"

"No, Watson," Holmes said sternly, "It is for you. Remember what I have told you, because it is very important."

He closed my hand over the bullet and held it steady.

"For someone who is so detached from society, you're quite the forgiving man, Holmes." I said quietly.

"Only to my dearest of friends, Watson."

Gazing at the little bullet in my hand, I murmured quietly, "So small. It's so small. Just a piece of metal."

Holmes lit his pipe and gazed out of the window.

"That it is, dearest Watson," said he. "That it is."

* * *

A/N: Thanks for reading! If you enjoyed this, please let me know in a review! :) I appreciate any and all support!

_finalproblem_


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